


As Each End Looms

by ClementineStarling



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5901691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Barrow meets the Devil*... </p><p>Erotic Horror AU or something.</p><p>_<br/>* and because I have totally surprising preferences, the part of the satanic figure goes toooo...<br/>Lord Coward from the first Ritchie Sherlock Holmes. Ha!</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Each End Looms

**Author's Note:**

> Probably nothing for Downton fans, but I felt like giving poor Thomas at least an opportunity to escape the unbearable dreariness of his life. I really hoped for him to find a lover and some happiness in the end, and I'm still angry about his storyline. 
> 
> Title taken from [As Each End Looms And Subsides](https://redsparowes.bandcamp.com/track/as-each-end-looms-and-subsides) from the album _The Fear Is Excruciating, But Therein Lies The Answer_ by Red Sparowes ;)

It is hardly past noon and already the shadows come creeping forwards. Long stripes of night-stuff falling from the statues that line the alley. Thomas is careful not to tread on them, avoids them with the superstition of a child. A behaviour has become second nature, he does not even think about it anymore. 

This time of year, the darkness never quite leaves, sneaks up on you, when you're not looking. 

Not that Thomas Barrow would know it any other way. For him the darkness is always there, he has carried it for a whole decade, whereever he goes. Only sometimes it reveals itself, just like it does now, and visualises the past: The memory of trenches cast on the withered grass. Thomas shivers, the air suddenly bitter in his mouth. If he is not careful, he can sense the earth against his back, the caress of dirt, the solace of mud, every single sharp stone pressing into his skin through the uniform, lumps of rock that sing of life and of terror while all around him the grenades fall like hail. Some moments never pass. Not really. But in daylight one can hide them away, lock them up inside oneself and pretend to be whole and sane and sound. Unbroken.

Needless to say these are not thoughts to dwell upon, least of all since he is on his way to apply for a position, but he can't help it. Melancholia has eaten its way into his mind, thrives there like fungus in a humid spot. Once he welcomed the darkness and its promise, enjoyed reflecting the world's cruelty back at it, every breach of the rules another step towards freedom, but now... now he finds, it is not so much the cage that's unbearable, but the loneliness, that in fact he would content himself with building a nest in his prison, if that made the pain disappear. 

A home. A place to belong. Is that too much to ask?

He steps carefully over another shadow falling across the gravel path and tries to shake off the sense of trepidation as he follows the driveway leading up to the great old house ahead. 

It is splendid with its proud walls and high turrets, every bit as grand as Downton. Half palace, half castle it was clearly designed as much to please as to awe, and now that time has left its mark upon it, it is even more breathtaking. A relict from bygone times, looming into the blanching sky, the winter sun painting a mask of otherworldliness onto its features. 

There is something queer about it. It feels as if the building was looking down on him, hostile, unforgiving stone, a frown oddly fashioned from shifting, slanting angles.

Thomas swallows hard when he steps into its ambit, up to the servant's entrance and rings the bell.

The footman answering the door is extraordinarily pale and pretty. Gorgeous even, though not tidy enough to be representable, his hair is unkempt, all mussed up in a way that appears almost sensual, his clothes a trifle too casual to pass as acceptably dressed, and he is too young for this task, as Thomas does not fail to notice, far too young. He imagines Carson's expression at such a faux-pas in staffing, a notion that helps his stubborn lips to curl into a polite smile.

“Barrow's the name,” he says, “I phoned earlier about the vacancy.” 

The boy nods nervously, licking his whore-red lips, and Thomas must force himself not to stare.  
“Yes,” the footman says in so low a tone it is almost a whisper. “His lordship is waiting for you.”  
His eyes are large and dark, beetle-black and glazed over, and Thomas heart beats faster, though he does not dare dwell on the cause.

He follows the boy inside, into the cold silence of the house. It is like a church, sombre, the smell of incense hanging heavily in the stale air. Empty. Not cleared out, shabby and run down like Dryden Park, pomp and paintings, trophies and treasures are still all there, but it is the splendour of a past nearly forgotten. The rooms lack the distinct feel of inhabitation, are devoid of life, of people. A museum, a crypt--

He reminds himself to be reasonable. “How many ladies and gentlemen are there in this household?” he asks, pretending he only wants to know to prevent another disastrous encounter with a delusional lord denying bankruptcy. 

“It's only his lordship,” the boy answers with an odd glance, stopping in front of a large double door. He raises his hand to knock, looks at Thomas as if wanting to say something, then reconsiders. 

The knock tolls like a bell in the quiet, and Thomas fights the inexplicable sensation of something awakening that should rather have stayed asleep. Something slithering in the dark corners of the house. 

“Come in.” The voice is soft, yet it carries with the same effortlessness through the hall as the knock. Perhaps the acoustic of this house is just marvellous, Thomas thinks in an attempt to quieten his nerves, but the goosebumps on his skin prove the futility of this lie, and his heart beats like a war drum when he enters the room.

The master of the house stands by the window, overlooking the gardens. He is not tall, that much Thomas can say without a shred of doubt, but everything else is fuzzy. Somehow it feels as if he is out of focus, blurred. Thomas blinks. The room is dim, the weak light hardly filtering through the window panes. Perhaps... but he can't finish the thought, because--

The man turns. He does not smile. It is not a smile in which he bares his teeth. Wide lips split open, and Thomas knows that hunger lies beyond, and he also knows he should not have come here, should have trusted his guts, turned around and run. It takes everything, every ounce of willpower not to flee now. Stay and bear the blade-glint of eyes that cut deep, a surgical incision to his soul.

And he stares back, frozen by primal fear. Fight or flight, fight or flight, his heart hammers. 

The man looks ageless, ancient and youthful at the same time, like two images overlapping, twisting, moving pictures. His hair is a mirror, it shines bright, it shines dark. His hand a tree branch in the wind as he bids him to sit. Nothing is real.

“Henry told me, you'd come.” His voice is a caress invoking shivers, it is needles and steel.

Thomas tongue lies dead in his mouth, and he is glad, because he can not, must not ask who Henry is. Perhaps the footman? The man he talked on the phone? But he has the distinct feeling that was not Henry. Spots dance in front of his eyes. 

He is thankful when he is asked to sit, afraid he'd faint otherwise.

“So, you are not valued by your current employer.” It is not a question. 

The man draws closer. He is impeccably dressed, cultured. Thomas eyes catch on his fingernails, they are perfectly polished and manicured, yet he must only blink to see they're talons. 

Then he nods. For some reason he nods. 

“But why?” The tone becomes softer, a purr, the hand touches him, gently, tilts his head upwards, so he has to look him in the eye. His gaze is like the comfort of stone and earth. It makes the terror melt and fade away, makes him forget death lurking in the air, sharp shrapnel-splinters. “You are made to serve, Thomas.” Voice smooth and rough as raw silk. 

He must be dreaming.

“Are you not?”

Again he nods. Yes, he is, can see it before his mind's eye, the devotion in the lowering of his head, the perfect pleasure of kneeling. The hand against his chin retreats, cups his cheek, warm and utterly dreadful. He leans into the touch. 

“What a good boy you are...”

It feels as is if this is all he could ever have asked for.

He blinks. The man still stands at the window. Or again. How much time has passed?  
Outside the day grows dusk-blue.

“I need someone I can trust implicitly,” he says, as much to the nearing night as to Thomas. “Not just someone who oversees staff and cellars, who opens doors and pours wine. A messenger, a confidant. Are you that man, Thomas? Will you walk between sleep and waking for me? I can see how you are almost there already, just another tiny step--”

Thomas feels like he's falling, not sure whether it is a faint or madness reaching out to embrace him. 

“I will give you everything you have ever dreamed of,” the man, _this creature_ says, “fulfil every wish, grant your darkest desire.” 

He knows what he wants, has always known it, even though he buried it deep under his shame; and thus he turned his heart into wasteland over time, a desert on which now the promises fall like rain, fat drops of magical water washing away the denial and exposing the delicate buds of desire. He can feel them bloom in his soul, lurid flowers and poisonous fruit, growing and sprawling.  
He must close his eyes now, the flood of sensations overwhelming.

Lust is crawling under his skin, an unspeakable hunger, all the sickness in him unfolding – he is sure, the man can read him like a book, there is such an overt lewdness in his too wide and too smug smile, it makes Thomas want to run and hide, and also spill every last secret he has kept for too long.

How he longs for a loving touch, a kind word.  
How he lies in bed at night, the sheets cold and clammy, and dreams of someone curled against him, a warm, eager body pressed against his naked skin.  
How he fantasises of soft, affectionate whispers and gentle hands, buried in his hair when he opens his mouth and...

The man looks at him, thoughtful, almost something akin to warmth in his gaze.  
“You are too modest, it seems,” he comments, “You have met George, have you not? Were you not inclined to make use of his pretty mouth? 

Thomas realises it is indeed a thought that has crossed his mind when he first laid eyes on the footman, _George_ , a notion that did not fully form before he suppressed it, but now he can see it, crystal-clear: the sweet stretch of luscious lips, the enticing flutter of dark lashes, how his own hand tangles in tousled hair. His insides squirm with wicked desire at the image, a warm hot spike of forbidden urges, and he relishes the feeling for just one moment, until the second wave of realisation hits, the comprehension that this is exactly what happened before he rang the door bell, that this sort of depravity is what occurs in this house, and it makes his skin freeze with horror. 

He stumbles to his feet, knees weak, mind reeling, suddenly afraid he could be stopped from leaving, but his move is only met by mild amusement and a slightly raised eyebrow, as if there was nothing unusual about his reaction, nothing rude. As if this was entirely to be expected. It does not help calm his nerves, not in the least. 

“You know where to find me, should you change your mind,” the man says and turns around to stare into the night again, as if he was waiting for someone. Or _something_ , Thomas thinks. He shudders.

The words of farewell catch up with him, when he is already at the door. “Henry says you will come back," he hisses, all pretence of sanity gone it seems, every syllable oozing madness. "Until then, Thomas Barrow. Au revoir.”


End file.
